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1. Photography is about finding out what can happen in the frame. -- Garry Winogrand
The first time they dive is a disaster.
“Just a trial run,” Lu Guang had said, in a tone that managed to be devoid of human warmth while loudly conveying the message I don’t trust you not to mess up. “If it goes wrong, the damage should be easy to contain.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Cheng Xiaoshi huffed. “I’ll show you my secret agent skills, don’t worry.”
Well, Lu Guang was right. Cheng Xiaoshi hates to admit it, but Cheng Xiaoshi has also spent the last fifteen minutes fumbling through a conversation with his past self; nearly breaking a mug due to habit, a height difference, and kitchen shelf placement; and knocking over a stack of prints on the shop counter, so yes, things could definitely have gone better.
“Lu Guang,” he says in Qiao Ling’s voice. “How much time do I have?”
Past-Cheng Xiaoshi will come back downstairs in forty-three seconds, a voice replies in his head. And please stop speaking aloud to me. Especially if there’s a risk of being overheard.
“It’s easier,” Cheng Xiaoshi grumbles. Focusing on the present is difficult enough without having to craft telepathic messages too; that earlier dual-channel conversation had been intense. He sweeps up the scattered prints -- hopefully past-Lu Guang didn’t memorise their order or alphabetise them by customer or anything Lu Guang-ish like that -- and tries to calculate his chances.
“Does he... uh, do I... does Cheng Xiaoshi head straight for the front hall when he comes down?”
Yes, and Qiao Ling leaves shortly after that. Which you had better do--
“Yes, yes.” He neatens the edges of the stack.
There are a few more in the corner, Lu Guang says. Behind you.
Cheng Xiaoshi turns -- how come Lu Guang sees more than he does, anyway? -- and scoops the last errant envelopes up, adding them hastily to the rest. Ten, Lu Guang begins to count down, nine, eight, but Cheng Xiaoshi can hear footsteps, and no, he’s not going to make it. Moving out of instinct, he dives behind the counter, pressing up close to it and hoping his line-of-sight estimates are correct -- barely a moment before his past self arrives.
“Qiao Ling?” Cheng Xiaoshi hears his own voice ask. He freezes, heart racing, but then-- “Tch, did she leave without saying goodbye? That’s cold.”
Hearing himself settle down on the sofa, Cheng Xiaoshi finally dares to breathe.
You idiot! Lu Guang’s voice cuts through his mind, sharp with frustration. You could have just acted natural! It doesn’t matter if he sees Qiao Ling picking up photos.
Your countdown made me nervous, he retorts weakly. But Lu Guang’s right, of course.
What you’re doing now is far more suspicious. And you’ve changed the past.
W-what is Qiao Ling supposed to do after she leaves? A chill runs down his spine, the consequences of his choice beginning to occur to him. What should I do now?
A pause. Lu Guang’s mental voice, when it sounds again, seems calmer: She strolls to the shopping district, window-shopping along the way. She doesn’t meet anyone. We can afford a time lag of twelve minutes or so. Another pause. Although your past self has started playing a mobile game.
Great. If Cheng Xiaoshi knows himself, that’s going to last rather more than twelve minutes.
Time passes, agonisingly slow. After a while, Lu Guang says: It’s good that you’re so oblivious.
Cheng Xiaoshi stifles a hiss. Shut up, he thinks back, with as much mental venom as he can muster.
You nearly said that aloud, didn’t you?
That’s it, Cheng Xiaoshi thinks to himself. He’s not going to hide and wait for his past self to leave and let Lu Guang keep insulting him in his own head. He’s going to return to the present, right now, and...
Except he can’t. He can’t, because if he leaves now, Qiao Ling will find herself crouching behind the shop counter with no idea why she’s there.
Eventually, after what feels like an eternity but is probably more like ten minutes, he hears a yawn from beyond the countertop.
Listen, Lu Guang says tersely. When I say so, dash for the door. The chime will sound, but we don’t have a choice.
Right. He creeps towards the end of the counter, preparing to swing around it. The sofa’s leather creaks. Footsteps pass him, heading towards the living room.
Now!
Cheng Xiaoshi makes it out of the door and down the street, raising his hands--
Stop, Lu Guang snaps. Slow down, let her heartbeat return to normal. If Qiao Ling finds herself running down the street, the transition will seem unnatural.
It takes far longer than Cheng Xiaoshi would like before he can relinquish control and escape back to the future, collapsing onto the sofa once he does.
“So,” Lu Guang says. “Secret agent skills?”
“I thought my exit was pretty impressive,” Cheng Xiaoshi mumbles. “Okay, okay, I’ll be more careful next time.”
“Who said there would be a next time?”
He looks up in dismay. “Seriously? I wasn’t that bad--”
“You were.”
“I’ll get better!” He clasps Lu Guang’s hand in half-exaggerated earnestness, scoots closer. “I just need more practice. I’ll brush up on my improvisation. Come on, don’t be like that--”
“Go away,” Lu Guang says, but with only a token attempt to push him back. Cheng Xiaoshi senses victory.
“I’ll listen to everything you say! I won’t change a thing! Lu Guang--”
Lu Guang gives him another half-hearted shove. This time Cheng Xiaoshi gives him space, waiting.
“When we do this for real,” Lu Guang begins, and Cheng Xiaoshi feels his heart leap: When, not If -- “-- the stakes will be much higher. You need to understand that.”
“You’re the best,” he replies happily. “Roger that, boss.”
“Cheng Xiaoshi. I’m serious.”
There’s a solemnity in Lu Guang’s gaze that goes beyond his usual boring sobriety. A question flickers on the edge of Cheng Xiaoshi’s mind -- Has he ever--? -- but dissolves under a flood of anticipation.
“I know,” he says. “So am I.”
2. The camera makes you forget you’re there. -- Annie Leibowitz
The mission’s simple enough, compared to some requests they’ve accepted before. A stakeout with barely a need to move, making up for a private detective’s past failure to pay attention. But then, four hours in, Cheng Xiaoshi asks Lu Guang if that passerby is one of those they’ve been waiting for -- and gets no response.
That’s fine, he tells himself. Lu Guang’s been slow to reply before. And even if he doesn’t, well, all Cheng Xiaoshi has to do is keep watching. He knows the list of observation targets, he’s got a good memory for faces. He merely has to keep track of who shows up when, what they seem to be doing -- how does Lu Guang do this? Is he just really good at taking notes?
Lu Guang? he tries again. I’m doing your job for you, you know. Lu Guang, answer me, dammit.
Nothing. Okay. He’ll have to count on himself, then.
For the next forty-five minutes, Cheng Xiaoshi concentrates more furiously than he’s ever had since his university entrance exams, memorising times and faces and actions. The world shrinks down to the view from the window.
When the prescribed stakeout time ends, he breathes a sigh of relief, running through the list in his mind again. That’s it, right? Mission accomplished. But there’s a lingering unease, an uncertainty that can’t be dispelled without Lu Guang’s usual confirmation.
When Cheng Xiaoshi reappears in the sun-drenched living room, the first thing he sees is Lu Guang curled up on the sofa, eyes closed, unmoving--
Asleep. Just asleep, he confirms, after squashing the irrational panic that he’d felt. Too many emotions are sloshing through him -- relief above all, irritation at his partner’s uncharacteristic unreliability, embarrassment at his own fear -- so he sits down and grabs the dossier, refocusing on their task.
After minutes of frenzied scribbling, Cheng Xiaoshi leans back.
There’s a mug on the table, with the dregs of coffee long gone cold; a book in Lu Guang’s hand, place still held by a finger in the pages. Cheng Xiaoshi can imagine Lu Guang giving himself a minute to rest, just a minute, before slipping off into sleep.
Now that Cheng Xiaoshi takes a proper look, Lu Guang appears more sleep-deprived than usual, the omnipresent shadows under his eyes even darker. There’s nothing serene or content about his sleeping form; only exhaustion, heavy in every limb.
Cheng Xiaoshi thinks about their recent stretch of long missions. About the burden of having to see everything, remember everything, decide everything. How, each time he wakes in a foreign body, Lu Guang’s waiting for him. About what it means to accompany someone; to be there for someone. A presence in his mind that he’s always taken for granted.
Even in sleep, a faint frown creases Lu Guang’s brow. Cheng Xiaoshi wishes he could smooth it out.
He settles for stealing Lu Guang’s book. The sunlight falls over them both, slips lower and lower, until Cheng Xiaoshi gives up trying to read and picks up his phone instead.
When Lu Guang wakes, he does so gradually, then all at once: a stirring, a slow blink, then jolting upright like a startled cat. His anxious gaze locks onto Cheng Xiaoshi’s. “The mission--”
“Was fine.” Belatedly, Cheng Xiaoshi pauses his mobile game. “Good thing I didn’t have to do much.”
“I... sorry,” Lu Guang says, urgency dissolving into self-reproach. “I compromised the job. It could have been so much worse--”
Cheng Xiaoshi shakes his head, holding up the annotated dossier. Then, because he’s Cheng Xiaoshi, he adds: “Were you dreaming about me? No wonder you were sleeping so soundly! You know, Lu Guang, you can always--”
“Shut up,” Lu Guang says out of reflex, then wavers. “But... thanks.”
3. All photographs are memento mori. -- Susan Sontag
Lu Guang takes forever to assess the photograph. The first bad sign.
“So is there a chance?” Cheng Xiaoshi asks at last, when it’s been long enough since the look in Lu Guang’s eyes shifted from concentration to contemplation.
“There is.” He doesn’t look up. “But it won’t be easy.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve taken tons of troublesome jobs. By which I mean, I’ve had to do tons of troublesome things, I’m always the one who’s suffering. What’s the problem this time?”
“That’s precisely the problem,” Lu Guang mutters to himself.
“Hm?”
“Nothing. Cheng Xiaoshi, do you understand the nature of this request?”
He shrugs. “I understand that it’s paying unbelievably well, we haven’t had a proper meal in days, and we’re behind on rent, let alone repayment. Isn’t it about some runaway boyfriend?”
“The person who took this photograph,” Lu Guang says, slow and deliberate, “has been missing for two days. He was involved in shady deals, likely mafia business; that might be why his girlfriend came to us instead of the police.”
“Wait, isn’t that bad?” Cheng Xiaoshi says, newly alarmed. “She should go to the police anyway. His life could be in danger.”
“Yes. Precisely.”
“Then we have to take this request!”
Lu Guang closes his eyes. “You don’t know what they might have done to him. And by extension, what you’ll have to go through.”
“Didn’t think you cared,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, lightly teasing. “Anyway, don’t you know what they’ve done?”
Silence. Then: “Not in detail. He wasn’t conscious throughout. I don’t have enough information.”
“All the more--”
“This isn’t our responsibility.”
Cheng Xiaoshi grabs his shoulder. “We’re talking about someone’s life, here.”
Reluctantly, Lu Guang opens his eyes. His gaze falls back to the photograph, then finally meets Cheng Xiaoshi’s. “What are you willing to do for this stranger?”
“For this person who needs help,” he corrects. “Whatever it takes.”
The conflicted look on Lu Guang’s face deepens. “They tortured him.”
“You mentioned the mafia. I figured as much,” Cheng Xiaoshi replies, more nonchalantly than he feels. “Let me do what I can, Lu Guang. I’ll be fine.”
“You had better be,” Lu Guang says quietly, relenting. His fingers tighten on the edge of the photograph, but he doesn’t move when Cheng Xiaoshi leans in to take a look. “If it’s too much to bear, leave the photograph immediately. Whatever fate this man has met, it’s already happened. You can’t change it. You can’t save him on your own. I’ll gather as much information as I can, as quickly as possible. Do you understand? Our rules--”
“Got it.”
The last photograph the missing man took was of the view from his office window. Cheng Xiaoshi steps back from the glass; sends the picture onwards, with the message that their client showed to them: Late night. Sorry, see you tomorrow.
He barely makes it through the building’s main door before it happens: rough hands, a car door, a hood over his head, all in the time that it takes Lu Guang to say Don’t resist, but try to stay awake. Easier said than done. Minutes into the drive, a voice says “Hey, don’t let him memorise the route”, and there’s a swift blow to the side of his head.
He slips in and out of consciousness -- nausea, snatches of conversation, the car’s engine, a voice saying Cheng Xiaoshi, stay with me -- until they reach their destination. He’s dragged out, dumped onto a hard floor. They haven’t even bothered to restrain him.
Cheng Xiaoshi? Say something.
His head hurts. He tries to lift it. “I--”
“Don’t worry,” a languid voice says from overhead. “Give us what we want, and you’ll get back in one piece. Probably.” A hand grabs his, presses his finger to the cool glass of a phone screen to unlock it. “But maybe we should cut off this bit, huh? For convenience.”
He flinches; the man laughs, lets go. “Don’t try anything, yeah? Let’s see what your phone’s got.”
Don’t try anything, the voice in his head echoes. Good job. I managed to follow much of the route. If you want to, come back now.
Familiarity deepens into recognition. Cheng Xiaoshi blinks in the darkness, returning to himself; the fear he feels is at least partly his own. Do you know where I am?
I’m working on it. We don’t need much more.
He fights the dizziness, tries to catch what wasn’t said. Which means we still need something.
You can come back, Lu Guang repeats, with an edge of desperation. Quickly, before--
A kick to the stomach. He gasps, curling up, but a shoe wedges itself in and shoves, flipping him onto his back. Sparks behind his eyes, a ringing in his ears. Another shoe lands on one wrist, pinning it down.
“Nothing.” A second voice, impatient. The sound of a phone clattering to the ground. “Guess you gotta talk instead.”
Cheng Xiaoshi realises, with a stab of terror, that he can’t leave.
I’m sorry. Even in his head, Lu Guang’s voice is raw with anguish. Once you get the chance, come back. They-- they didn’t tie his hands, at least.
“Well?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he tries. It doesn’t require any acting.
A mock sigh. “Same old line. Try to be more interesting, yeah?”
The harshness of cigarette smoke, suddenly close. Then--
“When you’re done screaming,” the man says, “tell us something useful.”
The smell of charred flesh. His hand jerks in reflex, trapped; the pressure on his wrist increases. He sobs, struggling.
“Watch it. Don’t wanna break your wrist too early.” A pause. “Nothing to say?”
Again. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts and he can’t think, doesn’t know anything beyond the burning and the fireworks in his head and someone saying I’m sorry, I’m sorry. He can’t do this. He wants to throw up. I’m sorry.
“They’re not much use if you hit them too hard. Gotta wait for him to recover.”
“Could be faking it.” Through the fabric of the hood, a shoe nudges his face. “Speak up or lose a finger.”
“S-sorry,” he says. He doesn’t know why. His mind buzzes with pain and confusion. They’re saying something else, but the sounds slip meaninglessly past. His wrist is freed and then there’s another kick, levering him back onto his side, his temple hitting the ground: agony, nothingness, agony again. He drifts. Waves of conversation ebb and swell. The floor is so cold. The static spikes, recedes, redoubles -- and then a strand of it resolves into a voice, reaching out of the white noise:
...eng Xiaoshi. Listen to me. Cheng Xiaoshi? I’m here. I’m here with you.
He clings to it, follows it, a thread leading out of the labyrinth. His name. Yes. He remembers why he’s here.
Can you hear me? Cheng Xiaoshi. Cheng Xiaoshi, please--
“Lu Guang,” he manages, barely a whisper.
I’m here. I’m sorry. Come back.
His throat stings. He struggles to shape his thoughts into a reply. Did you get what we needed?
Yes. You stayed conscious for most of their conversation. We’ve learned enough, the client agreed to go to the police, I’ve tipped them off. Come home.
When he reappears, Lu Guang’s there to catch him: a blanket, strong arms, the familiar scent of detergent. The pain is gone. The pain is still there. Cheng Xiaoshi shivers, buries his face in the curve of Lu Guang’s neck. He’s fine. His hands are fine. His hands are shaking, clenched into fists, nails digging deep -- until Lu Guang takes one of them, uncurls those fingers, and fits his own hand there instead, palm to palm.
4. When I photograph, what I’m really doing is seeking answers to things. -- Wynn Bullock
The job involves an embarrassing public proposal, an even more humiliating rejection --- during which their client had the luxury of blue-screen-of-death-ing but for which Cheng Xiaoshi has to remain regrettably lucid -- and then a drinking session in which so-called friends rake him over the scorching coals of memory.
It lasts four hours but feels like a lifetime. Well before it ends, Cheng Xiaoshi understands why their client had forgotten the whole mess. The psyche’s self-defence mechanism, clearly.
“But in the end, he still wanted to remember exactly what she said,” he muses afterwards, once he’s safely out of that social-death hell. “Even though he knew it’d hurt. And what his friends said about the relationship, too. Is he a masochist?”
“Would you want to hear it?” Lu Guang asks abruptly. “Even if you already knew the answer, would you...”
Cheng Xiaoshi turns to stare at him, but Lu Guang’s looking up at the night sky instead.
He settles back on the sofa. “Maybe,” he concedes. “I guess... he really cared about that girl, right? So what she thought mattered to him. Even though they didn’t have a future together.”
He glances over -- surely his poignant yet incisive psychological analysis had made an impression! -- but Lu Guang, still looking at the stars, says nothing more.
5. A photograph is a secret about a secret. -- Diane Arbus
It’s one of those days where everything is imperfect enough to be annoying -- misplaced parcels, a disappointing lunch, a couple of unsatisfying photoshoots -- yet not enough for one to feel justified in complaining about it, and look, Cheng Xiaoshi misses having a kitten around to play with, okay? The healing effect and all that. Which is why, while Lu Guang’s off running some errand and can’t scold him for doing so, Cheng Xiaoshi searches their wall for a photo of Elizabeth, concentrates, and claps his hands.
The smartphone makes the usual shutter sound, a digital holdover from the analog age. Cheng Xiaoshi clicks through to the album out of habit, to check the picture --
Wait. Hang on. Why are there photos of himself? Of himself sleeping? And this newly-taken one...
He looks up. Elizabeth the kitten yawns and wriggles out of the arms of... a sleeping Cheng Xiaoshi, sprawled across the sofa. The phone screen darkens; Lu Guang’s reflection appears on its surface.
“...whoops,” Cheng Xiaoshi says in Lu Guang’s voice. He should have noticed his own clothes in the photo’s background. And yeah, Lu Guang was always taking pictures of the kitten, back then.
But hey, if he’s Lu Guang now, will the kitten finally pay attention to him?
He reaches out, hopeful; Elizabeth turns away and scampers off.
Sighing, Cheng Xiaoshi glances back at himself -- it’s kind of creepy, like an out-of-body experience -- and feels a surge of something.
He recognises this. He’s felt it secondhand, when in the bodies of others: a warmth flooding one’s chest, the wish to draw closer. But to feel it here, now, as Lu Guang looking at himself--
Gears grind to a halt in his mind, refusing to compute. Maybe Lu Guang has a fever. Maybe it’s the weather, or sunstroke, or something. The afternoon light spills through the window, across that sleeping face. A scene surfaces, perhaps a memory: Lu Guang being woken by the sound of tossing and turning; listening as Cheng Xiaoshi mumbles something troubled in his sleep; climbing down the ladder, looking at him--
No, definitely not a memory. Lu Guang shakes Cheng Xiaoshi awake, gently; lies down beside him and holds him close; presses a kiss to his forehead. Cheng Xiaoshi watches as his imagined self relaxes in Lu Guang’s arms; as he moves closer, murmurs something, then returns the kiss just above the curve of Lu Guang’s collarbone.
Not a memory, which means...
Realisation arrives, still blurry around the edges. He’s never imagined this before. Yet now that he has, now that the possibility’s here before him, it feels as clear as sunlight, as natural as the way their hands meet: a photograph developing, sharpening out of nothingness, taking the form it was always meant to. He sees.
Part of him wishes he could stay longer. But it feels wrong; a further invasion of privacy. And besides -- Lu Guang might be home soon.
“Idiot,” Cheng Xiaoshi says to his sleeping self. “Cheng Xiaoshi, you have been such an idiot.”
Softly, careful not to wake himself, he claps his hands.
The moment he reappears in front of the photo wall, someone grabs his shoulder and spins him around.
“Where were you?” Lu Guang demands, voice taut with what Cheng Xiaoshi used to think was mere fury, but now recognises partly as fear. “You shouldn’t use your powers like that, not without--”
“Not without you. Sorry. Lu Guang, I...”
Lu Guang’s grip tightens. “Cheng Xiaoshi. What did you do?”
“I... wanted to see Elizabeth again,” he admits, gesturing to the photo in question.
Lu Guang turns to look, a sped-up reel of expressions crossing his face: bemusement, relief, exasperation.
“Don’t use your powers for such ridiculous things,” he snaps, though the anger’s drained out of his tone. He lets go -- but Cheng Xiaoshi catches his wrist, half out of instinct.
“What?” Lu Guang asks, perplexed.
This is a turning point, Cheng Xiaoshi thinks, his throat suddenly dry -- not in the past but in the present, for once. A decision that will change everything. But one that he’s free to make, that he’ll choose to make, that he’s making now, for a future that is his to write.
“You were the one who took the photo,” he says. “I felt what you.... you know. What you feel about me.”
There’s confusion in Lu Guang’s eyes, first; then a flash of something rawer. He steps back, tries to pull free, and Cheng Xiaoshi realises he has to keep talking, has to make himself clear before Lu Guang misunderstands, oh god, he’s probably jumped to the absolute worst conclusion--
Even if you already knew the answer, would you want to hear it?
“I’m sorry I didn’t see it earlier,” he says urgently. “I’m sorry that I didn’t feel-- I mean, that I couldn’t recognise--”
No, no, he’s made it worse. Lu Guang’s still pulling away, maybe not even listening -- Cheng Xiaoshi wraps his arms around Lu Guang instead, desperate to express what he hasn’t found the words for.
“Stop,” Lu Guang says coldly; a coldness under which too much else struggles to be contained. “Don’t pity me, Cheng Xiaoshi.”
“That’s not it! I...”
Lu Guang draws an unsteady breath.
“--I feel the same way, okay?” There it is, that confession; one that he’s making to himself, too. Cheng Xiaoshi swallows against the sudden tightness in his chest, rests his chin on Lu Guang’s shoulder. “I do. I really do.”
Lu Guang’s body tenses against his; then, very slowly, relaxes. This close, Cheng Xiaoshi can feel the rise and fall of his breathing. Time slows down. Time unfurls: a basketball court, an overgrown shopfront, a wall filling up with new memories. The promise of an open hand. He thinks of busy mornings and quiet afternoons, of days spent as other people and nights in unfamiliar beds, and through all of it, all of the light and darkness: Lu Guang, there with him.
A tentative hand settles on the small of Cheng Xiaoshi’s back. He looks up, meets Lu Guang’s eyes; a light in them that he’s never seen before.
Then he leans in again.
The kiss starts gentle, hesitant. It doesn’t stay that way for long. Lu Guang’s fingers curl into the back of Cheng Xiaoshi’s shirt, his other hand reaching up to grasp at a sleeve. He makes the most impossibly soft sound, low and needy, and Cheng Xiaoshi swallows it, wants more, wants everything. The corner of his mouth, the line of his jaw, the pulse fluttering beneath it -- he marks each spot with a kiss, nuzzles the side of Lu Guang’s throat, pleased by how his breath hitches in response.
“Lu Guang,” he murmurs, light-headed with the thrill of not knowing where this will lead, only that he wants to keep going-- “What should I do now?”
“Idiot,” Lu Guang says breathlessly, and answers him without words.